Where would it all end? That boy, Wes Freeman, slain in the hills. Then Collins and now Miller. Dud Kitchen recovering from a wound. Jim Satterfield down, and the whole affair only beginning and no end in sight. The door opened suddenly and without warning, and she whirled, coming to her feet with her eyes wide.
Disappointment swept over her, and then fear. Pete Zapata was closing the door after him. He was smiling at her, his queer, flat face wet with rain, his narrow rattler's eyes searching the corners of the room.
"Not here?" he whispered hoarsely. "Pretty soon, maybe."
"Who-who do you mean?" she gasped.
Her father was sitting up very straight, his eyes on the man. Zapata glanced at him with thinly veiled contempt and then shrugged.
"Who? That Rock Bannon. A few minutes ago he came down the canyon on his horse, now he is here somewhere. Who knows? But soon he will come here, and when-" He smiled, showing his yellow teeth between thick lips. His eyes shifted from her to her father. "If one speaks to warn him, I'll kill the other one, you see?"
Fear left her lips stiff, her eyes wide. Slowly, she turned back to the fire. Bannon would come here. Zapata was right. She knew he would come here. If Rock had come again to Poplar, he would not leave without seeing her. He might come at any minute. She must think, she must somehow contrive to warn him-somehow!
The steel dust liked the dim, shallow cave in which Rock stopped him, but he didn't like being left alone. He whimpered a little and made believe to snort with fear as Bannon started to move away, but when Rock spoke, the stallion quieted, resigned to what was to come.
Rock Bannon moved out swiftly, keeping under the trees but working his way closer and closer to the house of Pagones. He didn't know what he was getting into, but Pagones was the most reliable of them all, and the strongest one. If resistance to Harper was to come, it must come from him. Crockett lacked the force of character, even though he might have the will.
Besides, Pagones knew that one of Harper's men had shot down Dud Kitchen.
Pagones hadn't chosen his potential son- in-law. Mary had done that for herself, but Pagones couldn't have found anyone he liked better. Dud was energetic, tireless, capable, and full of good humor. George Pagones, in his heart, had never felt sure of Mort Harper. He had listened with one part of his mind to Bannon's protests, even while the smooth words of Harper beguiled him.
Pagones had returned wet and tired. Like Crockett, he had no love of killing. He had seen Osburn tumble into the flames, and he had seen Miller killed. Knowing the trouble Miller had caused and how he had attacked Sharon while drunk, Pagones was not sorry to see him die. If it had to be someone, it might as well have been Miller. Yet seeing any man die is a shock, and he had been close to the man.
Many men are aggressive and willing enough to fight, but when they see death strike suddenly and horribly their courage oozes away. Pagones had the courage to defend himself, but his heart was not in this fight, and the action of the day had served to make him very thoughtful.
Something was worrying Dud Kitchen. He had been noticing that for several days, yet there had been no chance to talk to him when the womenfolk were not around. He felt the need of talking to him now and got up and went into the room. He was there, beside the bed, when a breath of cold air struck him and he heard a startled gasp from his wife.
Gun in hand he stepped back to the door. Rock Bannon was closing it after him. He turned now and looked at the gun in Pagones' hand. Bannon smiled grimly.
"Well, you've got the drop on me, Pag. What happens now?"
"What do you want here?" Pagones demanded sternly. "Don't you know if you keep coming back, they'll kill you?"
"Just so it isn't you, Pag," Bannon said. "I always reckoned you a friend."
Pagones holstered his gun. "Come in," he said. "I take it you've come to talk."
Mary and his wife stood facing him, their eyes shining with apprehension. There was a scuffling of feet from the other room, and Dud Kitchen was in the door.
"Howdy," he said. "They'll kill you, Rock. I heard Zapata say he was after you. He said he was going to get you next."
"All right." Rock dropped into a chair, his right-hand holster in his lap, the ivory gun butt near his right hand. His dark blue shirt was open at the neck, his leather jacket unbuttoned. The candle and firelight flickered on the bright butts of the cartridges in his twin belts.
Dud's face was very pale, but somehow Rock sensed that Dud was glad to see him, and it made him feel better and made the talk come easier. Pagones' cheekbones glistened in the firelight, and his eyes were steady on Bannon's face as he waited for him to begin. It was very still in the room. A drop of water fell into the fire and hissed itself into extinction.
Mary Pagones stooped, her freckles dark against the pallor of her face, and dropped a handful of small sticks on the fire.
"Pag," Bannon began slowly, "I've never wanted this fight. I don't think you have. I don't think Crockett did either, or Dud here. There's no use me tryin' to talk to Tom. He's a good man and he knows what he wants, but he hasn't force enough to make it stick. He couldn't stand against Harper. There's only one man here can do that, Pagones, and that's you."
"Harper's my friend," Pagones said evenly. "He led us here. This is his fight and ours."
"You don't believe that," Rock said. "Not down inside, you don't. Collins's death brought you into it. That made it your fight and Crockett's fight. The truth is, all you men want is homes. That's what your wife wants, and Mary. That's what Sharon wants, too. That's what Cap wants, and the rest of them.
"What Mort Harper wants is land and power. He intends to have them, no matter who dies or when. I've been here before to try to stop this trouble. I'm here again now.
"One of our men died first, and he was a good boy. He was murdered, Pagones, murdered like no man in the wagon train would kill any man. Purcell didn't like me. Neither did Lamport. Cap was your leader, but he listened too quick to that glib tongue of Harper's."
"We all did," Dud said. "I listened, too. I listened for a while, anyway." Mary moved up behind his chair and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up quickly, and she smiled.
"Get to the point!" Pagones said. All that Bannon said was true. He knew it as well as Rock. He had listened to Harper, but secretly he had always been afraid that Bannon was right. He had been afraid of this trail. They had no oxen now, and they had no money. They were here, and they could not escape.
Rock leaned a hand on his knee. "Pagones, my boys say they didn't kill Collins!"
Chapter VII
Dud Kitchen drew in his breath, and Mary looked at him in sudden apprehension.
"What's that you say?" Pagones demanded.
"I repeat. I talked to my boys, and they say they didn't kill Collins. Bat Chavez couldn't see anything but Zapata, Stark and Murray weren't even facing toward Collins then. They say they didn't kill him."
"There was a lot of shooting," Pagones said. "Anything might of happened."
"That's right," Bannon agreed. "But my boys don't think they shot Collins, and that leaves a big question."
"It don't leave no question for me!" Dud flared suddenly. "I saw that wound of Collins's! And he was shot in the back!"
Pagones' face hardened. He stared down at the floor, his jaw muscles working. Was nothing ever simple anymore? Was there nothing on which a man could depend? How had he got into this mess, anyway? What should he do?
"Who do you think?" he asked. "You mean Zapata?"
Their eyes were all on Rock Bannon, waiting, tense. "No," he said. "I mean Mort Harper!"
"But, man, that's crazy!" Pagones leaped to his feet. "What would be the object? Is there any reason why he would kill a man on his own side?"
"You know the answer to that as well as I," Bannon said. He got up, too. "He wanted you in this fight, and that was the only way he could get you. Purcell and Lamport were fire- eaters. They were in, but they weren't enough. He wanted the rest of you, the good, sobe
r, industrious citizens, the men whose reputations at home were good, the men who would look honest to the military if they ever came west."
"I saw that wound," Kitchen repeated. "Collins was killed with a small gun, a small gun with flat-nose or split-ended bullets."
"Who has such a gun?" Pagones said. "You all know that Harper carries a Dragoon, like the rest of us."
"In sight, he does," Bannon agreed. "Mort Harper may pack another one."
He stopped, feet wide apart. "I've got to get out of here, Pag. I've got to get going and fast. There's not much chance of anybody being out tonight, but I can't gamble on that. I've got to get away from here, and this is the last time I'll come. I've tried to tell you about Mort Harper for a long time. You've got your last chance to break away, because I'm telling you flat: if you don't break away there won't be a building standing on this ground within forty-eight hours."
Pagones' head jerked up. "Is that an ultimatum?"
"You bet it is!" Bannon snapped. "If I'd let Bishop have his head, you'd have all been out of here long ago. Wes would be alive now, and Collins, and Murray wouldn't be packin' that slug in his leg, and Dud would be on his feet. If I'd not kept Bishop off you, he would have faced you with forty armed men and ordered you off before you had a stake down or a foundation laid.
"Those boys of ours are spoilin' for a fight. They hate Harper's innards, and they want Zapata. He's a murderin' outlaw, and they all know it."
"I don't know that I can do anything," Pagones protested. "We have to think of Zapata as it is. Harper's the only thing that keeps him and those teamsters off our places and away from our women, anyway!"
Rock Bannon started for the door. With his hand on the latch, he turned, sliding into his slicker.
"You step aside and there won't be any Zapata or his friends!" he declared. "We'll wipe them out so fast they'll only be a memory. We just don't want to kill good people. You can keep your places. We let you come in, and we'll let you stay."
He turned and slipped out the door into the rain. For an instant, he hesitated, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Rain fell in slanting sheets, striking his face like hailstones and rattling against his oilskin slicker like on a tin roof. Water stood in puddles on the ground, and when he stepped down a large drop fell from a tree down the back of his neck.
He hesitated, close against the wet tree trunk, and stared into the night. There was a glow of light from the window of the Crockett place. Somebody was still up. He hesitated, knowing it was dangerous to remain longer, yet longing for a sight of Sharon, for the chance to take her in his arms.
He never had. He had never kissed her, never held her hand. It was all a matter of their eyes, and yet he felt she understood and, perhaps, a little responded to his feeling.
There were lights from the saloon. They would all be down there now, playing cards, drinking. It was a pity he had none of the boys here. They could go in and wipe them out in one final, desperate battle. Lightning flashed and revealed the stark wet outlines of the buildings, the green of the grass, worn down now, between him and the Crockett cabin.
He stepped out from the tree and started across the open, hearing the far-off thunder muttering among the peaks of the mountains beyond the valley, muttering among the cliffs and boulders like a disgruntled man in his sleep.
He did not fasten his slicker, but held it together with his left hand and kept his right in his pocket, slopping across the wet ground with the rain battering the brim of his hat, beating with angry, skeleton fingers against the slicker.
Under the trees, he hesitated, watching the house. There was no horse around. Suddenly, a column of sparks went up from the chimney, as if someone had thrown some sticks on the fire. He started to move, and another cluster of sparks went up. He hesitated. A signal? But who would know he was near?
A third time. Three times was a warning, three smokes, three rifle shots-what could it be? Who could know he was here? It was nonsense, of course, but the sparks made him feel uneasy.
Then again, three times, once very weakly, sparks mounted from the chimney. Somebody was playing with the fire, tapping with a stick on the burning wood or stirring the fire.
No matter. He was going in. He felt cold, and the warmth of the room would be good again before he began his long ride to the line cabin. A long ride, because it would be foolhardy to go down the canyon toward the valley.
He stepped out from under the tree and walked up to the house. His boots made sucking noises in the mud before the door. Lightning flashed and water glistened on the smooth boards of the door. He should knock, but he stepped up and, keeping to the left of the door, reached across with his left hand and drew the door wide.
A gun blasted, and he saw the sudden dart of fire from the darkness by the fireplace. The bullet smashed into the door, and then he went in with a rush.
He caught a glimpse of Sharon, her eyes wide with fright, scrambling away from the fire. Zapata lunged from the shadows, his face set in a snarl of bared teeth and gleaming eyes. His gun blasted again, and a bullet snatched at Rock's jacket. Bannon thumbed his gun.
Zapata staggered, as though struck by a blow in the stomach. As Rock started for him, he leaped for an inner door. Rock lunged after him, firing again. There was a crash as Zapata went through a sack-covered window.
Wheeling, Rock leaped for the door and went out. Zapata's gun barked, and something laid a white hot iron across his leg. Rock brought his gun up, turned his right side to the crouching man, and fired again, fired as though on a target range.
Zapata coughed, and his pistol dropped into the mud. He clawed with agonized fingers at his other gun, and Rock Bannon could see the front of his shirt darkening with the pounding rain and with blood. Then Bannon fired again, and Zapata went down, clawing at the mud.
A door slammed, and there was a yell. Rock wheeled and saw Sharon in the doorway. "I can't stop," he said. "Talk to Pagones." And even as he spoke, he was running across the worn grass toward the trees.
A rifle barked and then another; then there were intermittent shots. Crying with fear for him, Sharon Crockett stood in the door, staring into the darkness. Lightning flared, and through the slanting rain she caught a brief glimpse of him. A rifle flared, and then he was gone into the trees. A moment later, they heard the pounding of hoofs.
"They'll never catch him on that horse," Tom Crockett said. "He got away!"
Sharon turned, and her father was smiling. "Yes, Daughter, I'm glad he got away. I'm glad he killed that murderer."
"Oh, Father!" Then his arms were around her, and as running feet slapped in the mud outside, he pushed the door shut. "He'll get away," she cried. "He must get away."
The door slammed open, and Mort Harper shoved into the room. Behind him were four men, their faces hard, their guns ready.
"What was he doing here?" Harper demanded. "That man's a killer! He's our enemy. Why should he come here?"
"I don't know why he came!" Crockett said coldly. "He never had a chance to say. Zapata had been waiting for him all evening. He seemed to believe he would be here. When Bannon came in, he fired and missed. He won't miss again."
Harper stared at him, his face livid and angry under the glistening dampness of the rain.
"You seem glad!" he cried.
"I am!" Crockett said. "Yes, I'm glad! That Zapata was a killer, and he deserved killing."
"And I'm glad," Sharon said, her chin lifted.
"I'm glad Bannon killed him, glad that Bannon got away."
There was an angry mutter from the men behind Harper, but Mort put up a restraining hand. "So? This sounds like rebellion. Well, we'll have none of that in this camp. I've been patient with you people, and especially patient with you, Sharon, but my patience is wearing thin."
"Who cares about your patience?" Anger rose in Sharon's eyes. "Your soft talk and lies won't convince us any longer. We want our oxen back tomorrow! We've had enough of this. We'll get out of here tomorrow if we have to walk."<
br />
"No, you won't," Harper said. "Come on boys. We'll go now."
"Let's teach 'em a lesson, Boss," one man said angrily. "To blazes with this palaver!"
"Not now," Harper said. His nostrils were flared with anger, and his face was hard. "Later!"
When the door closed after them, Tom Crockett's face was white. "Well, Sharon," he said quietly, "for better or worse, there it is. Tomorrow we may have to fight. Your mother helped me fight Indians once, long ago. Could you?"
Sharon turned, and suddenly she smiled. "Do you need to ask?"
"No." He smiled back, and she could see a new light in his eyes, almost as if the killing of Zapata and the statement to Harper had made him younger, stronger. "No, I don't," he repeated. "You'd better get some sleep. I'm going to clean my rifle."
Rock Bannon's steel dust took the trail up the canyon at a rapid clip. They might follow him, Bannon knew, and he needed all the lead he could get. Some of those men had been in these hills for quite some time, yet if he could get away into the wilderness around Day's River, they would never find him.
Shooting it out with six or seven desperate killers was no part of his plan, and he knew the teamsters who had come to Poplar were just that, a band of renegades recruited from the scourings of the wagon trains passing through the fort. After the immediate dash, however, he slowed down to give the steel dust better footing.
He turned northeast when he came out of Poplar Canyon and rode down into a deep draw that ended in a meadow. The bottom of the draw was roaring with water that had run off the mountains, but as yet it was no more than a foot deep. Far below, he could hear the thunder of Day's River, roaring at full flood now.
The canyon through the narrows would be a ghastly sight with its weight of thundering white water. Always a turmoil, now it would be doubled and tripled by the cloudburst. Rain slanted down, pouring unceasingly on the hills.
The trail by which he had come would be useless on his return. By now the water would be too deep in the narrow canyon up which he had ridden. He must find a new trail, a way to cut back from the primitive wilderness into which he was riding and down through the valley where Freeman had been killed, and then through the mountains.
the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) Page 20
